#74 Snow flakes

Snow is cold and wet
but also magical.
There is magic in
the mathematically
perfect flakes
that fall after
the still chill,
soft as down,
hard as frost,
a contradiction.
As I watch them
in the twilight
this July evening
a couple of flakes
swirl hither and
thither, aimless,
unaffected by
gravity and their
own will
apparently.
They will land
wherever chance
dictates, and
then they will
melt and vanish,
and I wish that
my life was
similar
There would be
some comfort
in that.

Poem # 72 Old Service Station and Hotel

This servo sits high on a
curving mountain road.
The signs and windows now broken
and patched with fibro.
Once a Golden fleece beckoned,
now only a shattered and broken
ring on top of a tapering pole.
The pub nearby has become
less profitable
and is now a peeling
castle for superannuated
trivia buffs, middle aged
drinkers and lonely souls
on the look out for
other lonely souls.
It still has a crumbling beauty
sitting on the rain-wet
overgrown terrace
overlooking the beautiful
vista of the
valley below.
A scene always impressive
be it illuminated in sunshine
or wrapped in fog,
but now this rest stop
is emotionally bankrupt,
all assets transferred,
an ex lover with
transferred affections.

#73 My Dogs

My dogs can experience sorrow, grief, and joy.
They can plan ahead, laugh,
and even deliberately deceive.
They have cognitive ability.
As I gaze into their compelling eyes
I wonder why it has taken
humans so long to accept that
our fellow animals
think and feel like us.

# 71 Holmes and Watson

The incomparable Holmes and I lay side by side, our fingers entwined beneath our heads for comfort on the spongy moor, staring up at the sweeping celestial vista above us. "Tell me Watson",he said "what is it that you think of when you look up at that magnificent panorama of sky?" "Well Sherlock", I replied taking the liberty of using his christain name because of the intimacy of the situation. " when I look at that sky at night I think about time and space and the amazing complexity of it all - Sirius - always the brightest, Orion, then the planets - Venus and Uranus. The constellations travelling slowly across the roof of the world from dusk till dawn. The precision of it, the quiet orderliness of the stars, that endow oneself with such a sense of freedom. - Why do you ask that question dear friend? Tell me, what do you think of when you observe that sublime grandeur. " It's elementary", Holmes replied after a pause for thought " someone has stolen our tent "

# 70 On a Roman Road

With a grinding of cams and gears the bus slowly meandered down country lanes cut very low by cart wheels hundreds of years before. " " The land of fog and mists!" quote Julius Caesar when first his sandelled feet stepped out of the Trireme onto the shores of this our emerald isle..... from wence come you, oh dusty traveller? " He spoke with fruity tones of rum pot richness cultivated in Oxford and Cambridge. Haunted by echoes and spectres of shirt lifters and pillow biters I didnt deign to reply. Later she admonished me: " That vicar was trying so, hard to start a coversation with you, but you wouldn't even reply!" For two decades I tried to make up for that mistake. In all regards I acted with kindness, sensitivity,and empathy. I did unto her as I would have someone do unto myself. I tried not to speak unless it was kind, true, or necessary. With love and affection I tried to illuminate the dusk of our relationship. Finally slowly, oh so slowly, I felt I had atoned for that mistake back in the heavy airs of Avalon, and I stepped out the door knowing that alone in my darkness I had indeed become a Cain in the wilderness.

Poem # 69 The woman in black stockings ( or is it pantyhose?)

There is a beautiful woman in black stockings (or is it pantyhose?) sitting on the bus stop bench looking tired at middle age with her raspberry lips. It's hot in the sun and the day at school has been dull, and going home is dull, and I drive by in my van peering at her warm legs ( through one way mirror sunglasses) her eyes look away - shes been warned about ruthless and horny men; she's not going to give it away like that, and yet it's dull waiting out the minutes at the bus stop, and the years at home, and the book that she carries is dull, and the food that she eats is dull, and even the ruthless and horny men are dull. The beautiful woman in black stockings (or is it pantyhose) waits She awaits the proper time and moment, and then she will move and then she will conquer. I drive around the block in my van peeking at her legs pleased that I will never be part of her heaven and her hell, but that scarlet lipstick on her sad waiting mouth! It would be nice to kiss her once, fully,and then give her back, but the bus will get her first.

Poem # 65 Coles carpark mid west coast.

Eavesdropping in the sauna like heat in my Toyota, sucking a mango seed, relishing the sublime furry flavour. Like the tidal stream of the Indian Ocean people ebb in and out with the social flow leaving bobbing in their wake the detritus of their lives. " Shut up, you little cunt! One more sound and I'll send you back to your father!" " Of course you're the father Kevin, You were there when they cut the cord, Jason means nothing to me!" " You know it's amazing when you kiss me - you're more like a guy - you're wife is one lucky girl - you thirsty? Let's get a breezer. " Groceries loaded we steer the Landcruiser down the channels between the parked cars and head for calmer waters.